Brownied Girl
by SilentG
Summary: Double-crossover, almost crackfic, horror/romance if you can believe it. Shippyish. Features chars from LO:CI, L&O, & X-Files. Despite early indications, my regular CI fans will not be disappointed. Follow if you like it, it might change categories.
1. WHEREVER YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE

**Author:** SilentG  
**Title:** Brownied Girl  
**Fandom:** LO:CI, L&O, X-Files  
**Pairing:** Shippy  
**Rating:** M for gory violence. No foolin.  
**Spoilers:** Nope  
**Archive:** Anywhere – no need to ask – just attribute, and let me know if possible  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine  
**Summary:**Double-crossover, almost crackfic, horror/romance if you can believe it. Shippyish. Features chars from LO:CI, L&O, & X-Files. Despite early indications, my regular CI fans will not be disappointed. Follow if u like it, will b changing cats 2 cover Fandoms.

**A/N 1:** Combining a procedural that hangs its hat on realism (CI) with a paranormal procedural (X-Files) is a bit problematic. The forensics is somewhat fantastical in this fic. CI is Canon to S10, L&O is Canon to the end (AFAIK), and X-Files is Canon to S7, maybe beyond...

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER ONE: WHEREVER YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE**

_1 Police Plaza, Manhattan, NY_  
_9:15PM Monday, July 30, 2012_

"Bobby."

Detective Alex Eames nudged her partner of almost 13 years on the edge of one of his size 13 shoes. It was only Monday and already it seemed like a long week. With nothing of their own to pursue, Major Case's top team was playing gofer for the teams with cases. Bobby was the more philosophical about combing over phone records and re-interviewing witnesses; Alex was chafing under the tyranny of being temporarily second string.

She loved the chase, almost as much as her partner. And in the year-and-a-bit since they'd both been back at 1PP, work had been _fun_. Even in this miserably hot weather, even without a mystery of their own to solve.

"Bobby!"

It was well past their quitting time, even considering the long hours they usually put in. The day shift was long gone, the night shift was for the most part out doing its thing, only a couple of support workers and their Captain still remained. Bobby had been moaning and groaning all day, complaining of fatigue and soreness due to a _busy weekend_, and the box of donuts he'd brought in for the whole squad this morning had led to a chorus of teasing about just how he'd kept busy. After several years of horrendous personal pitfalls that had kept her partner out of the dating game, it warmed her heart to see him so happy with someone, although she still felt twinges of regret for _what might have been_. Even during their darkest times, there was a part of her subconscious that had thought they might end up together… she looked back with sadness at the opportunities she'd missed out on snagging him.

And despite his many aches and pains, here he was still gnawing on some bone or other, Alex thought with a smirk. Just 10 minutes ago Captain Hannah had wandered out of his office to ask Alex how she was feeling, and Bobby hadn't looked up or even appeared to have heard. Unlike her partner, who'd been boyishly gleeful about his latest conquest, she felt uncomfortable with discussing anything personal with her colleagues, even their trusted Captain. She worked to banish the feeling of disquiet initiated by the exchange.

Restless after Hannah's prodding, Alex shuffled to the ladies' room to freshen up and cool off, and when she returned, she'd glanced at Bobby's monitor as she walked behind him.

"Bobby, what on earth?" Her partner was reading one of the gossip rags, a lurid series of (obviously doctored) photos framing the text he was scanning. _My Baby is a Cannibal,_ the headline screamed, and Alex couldn't help but chuckle at the odd reading tastes of the man who'd sat opposite her for the better part of a third of her life. He cocked his head and looked up at her with a beautifully sheepish and whimsical expression, such that the tug she felt on her heart almost led her to run her fingers through his hair. That would have been embarrassing. And career suicide, even at this time of night.

Before Alex could give her partner another poke, Captain Hannah burst out of his office and bellowed at them. "Bobby! Alex! My office, double time. It's one of our own."

**O.O.O.O.O**

_Home of Connie Rubirosa, Brooklyn, NY_  
_8:45PM Monday, July 30, 2012_

It stood stock still, trembling, behind the stack of still-sealed moving boxes in the den, caressing its own coat to soothe the rush of fear and exhilaration of its first kill.

The sound of its breath was thunderous to its own ears, and even the _scrape scrape scrape_ of its claws through its marabou-like black fur seemed to echo and rebound and amplify in the little room.

It longed to return to its nest under the sink in the laundry room, but the bright lights and screaming kept it where it was. The screaming was the most disturbing part; that was a surprise. Burrowing into the jagged hole of flesh had dulled the sound, for a bit, so that it had been only a pricking tickle padding up its spine and out through its claws.

Gristle clung to its square little teeth, mingling pleasantly with the patina of blueberry muffin from earlier. It began to groom itself in earnest, licking the blood and ribbons of skin and tendon from its coat, meticulously working over its distended stomach.

Around it, the bright lights changed, oscillating and shivering different colours. The screams changed too, becoming more shrill and less guttural. The house was disturbed by many stomping feet and deep voices, and unfriendly smells.

Panic suffused it as it scrambled to stay ahead of the insistent intruders. Fleeing from the oasis of boxes to behind the bathroom door, then under a covered chair in the dining room, then for a few moments under the sink, then back to the boxes. Always aware that it was most visible out of the corners of watchful eyes.

The terror was acute.

Finally able to escape through the tiny door to the garden, it looked back to see a big and booming creature pointing to the floor behind the pile of boxes. A smaller one stooped, reappeared with something in its claws. The two made low murmuring sounds, and it retreated.

Soon the leftover food was carted away, and the house was once again quiet. It slept.

**O.O.O.O.O**

_SleapEZ Motel, Gungy, CT_  
_9:50PM Monday, July 30, 2012_

Mulder looked so sheepish when he opened the door to her knock, she almost turned on her heel and moseyed back to her room. But she was hungry, and if they didn't debrief over a late dinner, what was she going to do instead? The whole town locked down as tight as a drum at 8pm, and she was too tired to wrestle the keys from her partner and drive to Lyme. So Agent Scully just rolled her eyes and brushed past him.

The smattering of publications sporting salacious images scattered around his bed gave her pause, but it was an array of supermarket tabloids, not skin mags, that surrendered to her reluctant inspection. Standard fare for her paranoid, eccentric partner.

"C'mon Scully, give me a little credit. You know me better than that." Mulder spoke over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bathroom.

"You don't need to remind me how well I know you, Mulder." Out of habit, she leaned over the unmade bed – careful not to touch it – and noted the pages the publications were open to. She didn't ask him anything – no doubt it would eventually come up.

Mulder reappeared carrying his toiletries bag. "You'll have to take your food with you, Scully, I've already eaten." He slipped his cell phone into his pocket and began throwing clothes into his suitcase.

"_What_?" Accustomed to abruptness, non-sequiturs and cryptic directives from her partner of almost 20 years, his preoccupation, coupled with the unappetisingly damp and wilted brown paper bag on the little table, rankled. Did the man not have one iota of reason or civility or consideration? She took a moment to consider the possibility of just scuttling back to her room, locking the door and turning on the TV.

No, he'd probably just leave without her. She'd come back the next day and find that same little bag still sitting there, droopy and forlorn. Which was exactly how she felt right now.

"Where are we going? Did we get a call-out?"

"Call-out? Uh no, not exactly. We're going to New York. Manhattan. Or, er, Brooklyn."

"Oookaaay… Why?" 20 years of experience with the hunt took over, and she mentally catalogued all the belongings she'd have to shovel into bags at top speed.

"A friend with ties to the NYPD gave me a tip about a murder, sounds like an X file. I've been tracking some similar cases through the media."

"By media, you mean _The Daily Global_ and its ilk?" She gestured towards the papers on his bed.

"Where else? I mean, it's me, right?"

He spoke to her back as she high-tailed it to her room to pack. But not before snagging the paper bag.

Later, as he loaded her things into the trunk, she asked him, "Are we gonna get into trouble for this?"

And he answered cryptically, "As my Aunt Bessie used to say, 'Wherever you go, there you are.'"

"I think that was Winnie the Pooh," she replied. And later, "You don't have an Aunt Bessie." But he was asleep in the seat beside her.

~.~.~.~.~

**A/N 2:** Heh. My first stab at horror, ever. It's kinda fun.

WORDS: 1588 UPLOADED Monday, October 15, 2012


	2. BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS

**A/N 1:** A big THANK YOU to L&O ficcer DaisyDay, who was kind and generous enough to look over this fic for errors in L&O canon & characterisation. Also big THANK YOU to Rubyray77 for her correction of the spelling of Scully's name!

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER TWO: BEGGARS CAN'T BE CHOOSERS**

_JFK Airport Domestic Arrivals, Queens, NY_  
_6:05PM Sunday, July 22, 2012_

"Connie!"

ADA Connie Rubirosa's resignation was tendered, her new employment contract delivered, her lease signed, and her belongings shipped and waiting in boxes in the entranceway to the little house in Brooklyn. She'd arrived back in New York with only her memories of LA, her hopes, fears, and an overnight bag so she wouldn't have to unpack anything tonight.

And she was being met at the airport by a handsome, confident man from her complicated time in New York, waving a bunch of flowers. Unfortunately, it wasn't the man who'd been on her mind lately.

But beggars can't be choosers.

"Detective Lupo, hi. Wow, I didn't expect anyone to meet me here." Cyrus Lupo of the Two-Seven, looking trim and casual in an open-necked oxford shirt and cargo shorts, smoothly took her carry-on and handed her the bouquet of very unusual flowers. The exotic fragrance wafted around her as they walked together along the concourse. "How did you even know when I'd be arriving?"

As they emerged into the hot New York afternoon, he gestured towards a limo parked in the VIP pickups area, and Connie almost laughed in surprise. Wow. After a year and a bit in Los Angeles feeling, to be honest, a teensy bit sorry for herself, it was very nice to be met by an easy-on-the eyes old friend, given an intoxicating handful of blooms, and handed adroitly into a limousine.

"Cutter mentioned something about it."

At the mention of her old boss from the DA's office, Connie's stomach did a flip. She glanced at the smoky glass of the window to cover her disconcertion. "Mike? What – I mean, I see. How is he?" The petals of her heart, the most delicate blooms she held, subtly shivered open.

Lupo shrugged as if the topic of Mike Cutter was the last thing he had any interest in or knowledge about. "I dunno, the same. Still winning. I guess you'll see for yourself soon enough."

She would indeed. When she'd been negotiating her return to her old job, her new boss had offered to give her 'til next week to get settled, but she'd elected to start on July 23, one day after her arrival. Yes, she had a lot to do to unpack, explore her new neighbourhood and re-connect with her old life, but she couldn't deny that she was very impatient to get back to work, so much so that she thought any time left to her own devices would have been wasted.

And what about her old life? As Detective Lupo quizzed her on her trip, her mom, what it had been like starting over on opposite sides of the continent _twice_, etc etc, Connie reflected on what her _old life_ had to offer. There were certainly important people here who she's kept in touch with during her time in Los Angeles. Folks whose lives she was pretty much caught up on via social media.

She could have gotten back into her old building in Manhattan, but she chose to buy in Brooklyn. Yes, if she really looked at it, even though she was back at her old job, she didn't want things to be the same. The move to LA hadn't eased the vague dissatisfaction she'd been feeling her last few months in New York; she hoped that returning to the place where it had started would help to show her something new.

**o.o.o.o.o**

"Can I buy you dinner?"

Detective Lupo had tipped the limo driver and they were standing a little awkwardly on her stoop. The little house she'd bought after a lightning-fast junket back East over Christmas was looking fine and dandy, surrounded by overgrown and yet somehow charming greenery on the comfortable tree-lined street. As she thought about her empty fridge (was it even plugged in?) and stacks of boxes, the answer was easy.

"Sure, do you mind waiting while I shower and change?" It was already apparent to her that he wouldn't. Connie was surprised how happy it made her to be in the free and easy company of an attentive man whose bona fides were not in question, and with whom she didn't feel the awkwardness and anxiety that secretly haunted her social interactions.

"No problem. I might just hang here on the porch and enjoy the ambiance."

_Good_, she thought. In retrospect, she wasn't sure how comfortable she felt having a man, no matter how trustworthy, wandering around her new digs while she bathed.

"Thanks, Lupo. I wish I had a refreshment to offer you…"

"That's OK. We'll get something soon. I thought we could go exploring?"

"Sounds good."

Half an hour later Connie emerged clean and rejuvenated to rejoin Lupo on the front steps. After a quick shower, she fished a water glass out of one of her china boxes and arranged the bouquet on the kitchen counter. It wasn't the most elegant display, but it made the place seem a tiny bit more like home, and that made her happy.

"Those flowers are amazing, Lupo. Where did you conjure them from?" The limo was long gone, but it was a short walk to a busy corner in her neighbourhood with several promising dinner possibilities. The evening sun was beautiful and Connie enjoyed stretching her legs.

"Well it wasn't really magic, just a street vendor I stopped at on the way to the airport."

"Oh so you're saying you really didn't put any thought into it?" Lupo looked chagrined, and Connie laughed. "Just teasing. Sorry, couldn't resist."

**o.o.o.o.o**

After dinner, Connie insisted that Lupo catch a cab from the thoroughfare and she walked the few blocks to her new home alone. The last few hours had passed pleasantly, but had left her feeling hollow and despondent.

Lupo was… well, not exactly _nice_, but he was objectively a catch. And he was clearly interested in her. She wasn't kidding herself that he'd have shown up at the airport for any old former colleague. And she could see herself falling for him, falling into something with him.

_Is that enough?_ she asked herself as she ran her fingers across the mysterious blossoms he'd brought her. _Maybe I don't know what I want_.

After putting away the groceries she'd picked up on the way home, she took herself to bed. The next morning as she got ready for her first day of work, she was pleased to notice that a couple of the flowers in her bouquet seemed to be growing what looked like tiny, feathery roots. She made a mental note to stick them into a pot or in the garden later on in the week.

**O.O.O.O.O**

The house had smelled and sounded dead and sterile at first, but soon hummed with the sweet pulse of life and warmth. Attracted to the noises and odours of a busy home, it began to reach out tendrils to claim this place as its home as well.

~.~.~.~.~

**A/N 2:**

WORDS: 1227 UPLOADED Friday, October 19, 2012


	3. PERMANENT?

**A/N 1:** Thank-you and hats off to author Weathergirl, who brilliantly pointed out that this is a horror fic, and Hallowe'en is fast approaching! Didn't even make that connection, but I appreciate it.

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER THREE: PERMANENT?**

_1 Police Plaza, Manhattan, NY_  
_3:30PM Friday, July 27, 2012_

Just as he turned the corner down the long hallway on the 11th floor on his way back to Major Case, just as his partner hove into view, Bobby saw Captain Hannah knock twice on Alex's desk and mutter something before striding away. It still bothered him a little bit when their Captain talked to his partner alone. Afraid they were talking about him, afraid Eames would have to defend both of them by herself, explain or lie something away by herself.

Or maybe it just made him nervous whenever men spoke to her without him.

"A-Eames, everything OK?" His partner's eyes lit up when she espied the gigantic coffee he was carrying. She reached out her hands like a little girl and mouthed _gimme, gimme_. He smiled as he handed it to her.

"What did you get for yourself, Bobby?"

Usually he just grabbed a water, but he'd splurged today. "A skinny Mocha."

"Mmmm, tasty." She didn't seem inclined to answer his question, so he pressed her on it. "Well," she said, making a face, "The Captain's noticed you've been really happy lately, and he asked me if I thought it was… permanent."

Bobby's first inclination was to be irritated. He hated people discussing him behind his back, and he hated it that his boss kept tabs on the ups and downs of his personal life. After irritation came insecurity. "It's none of his business. Does he think it's affecting my work?"

"Don't be upset, Hannah was just happy for you. And you can't accuse him of snooping, you haven't been taking many pains to conceal your, er," his partner paused, pursing her lips as she no doubt laboured to find a delicate description for his ill-concealed new relationship status.

Bobby let her off the hook with a wave of his hand. "If he'd just been glad for me he would have just told me."

"Bobby, I think he just wants to make sure that you're happy and that your new – lady friend – is good, and trustworthy, and good for you, and everything that the people who care about you care about." Why did Alex pick a hot drink on such a hot day? It was making her flushed, bringing a sheen of sweat to her temples.

"Well. You told him she is, right?" Her somewhat non-committal noise concerned him less than the thought that occurred to him next. "Eames? Why would he think that you'd know anything about – her?"

Alex shook her head. "I think – a lot – of people think, we're deep in each other's pockets."

Bobby's ire stuck with him, but he channelled it into his work. Only later, when their coffees were long gone and the remains of dinner sat in a crumpled heap of Styrofoam between them, did he hear his partner's soft, almost hesitant question. "Is it?"

"Is it what?"

"Permanent."

**o.o.o.o.o**

At the end of the day, after declining Alex's offer of a ride, he looked back at the file he'd been reading. From upstate, a case that had looked at first like a mauling, but was now being worked as a murder.

Written by a state trooper assigned to the sticks, it read like a lurid penny dreadful, and Bobby was both repulsed and fascinated by the scenario the facts presented, as well as by the florid and candid style.

_The victim, male, aged mid-thirties, has been dead less than 12 hours. Discovered by his wife of 9 years in the kitchen of their home, wife claims to have fainted at the ghastly mess her husband had made in his death throes. Items from the breakfast table and the counter knocked onto the floor, smears of blood and flecks of gore flung against all the vertical surfaces up to approximately 18 inches, sprays and streaks of same along the floor. _

_Vic appears to have died of blood loss due to huge chunks of his lower calves being chewed up and eaten. The vermin – probably coyotes – also ate his eyes and his tongue. The sight was horrific… two of my men had to excuse themselves & get medical attention. _

_Vic seemed to have fought hard against his attackers, several hand bones appear to be broken. Must have been a surprise attack or with some contributing circumstance (check with ME for intoxicants)._

_Scene compromised by wife & EMTs, however…_

And the report continued at length, but with few more compelling details. It was only days later, after the Medical Examiner's report, that the event was re-classified as a homicide…

Cause of death: massive organ failure due to a full-body endoscopic neuronectomy arising from an entrypoint at the left and right Achilles tendons. All major organs morbidly affected. Heart vessels turned completely inside-out, liver split, spleen burst. Tongue inverted, detached, swallowed or pulled into stomach. Testicular and penile tissue also inverted and flayed, some tissue discovered in the femoral artery. Deceased's ocular orbs, thought to have been removed, found lodged in the renal artery.

Considerable trauma and deformity to all muscle groups. Multiple fractures in most hand and foot bones, the left radius and both tibias. Left elbow and left knee dislocated. Stress rupture of the superior vena cava and bladder. Vertebrae C3, 4, 6, T3, T4, and L1-4 all compressed and/or ruptured. Proximal femur (hip) bones both cracked.

Ligaments, fascia intact, but no sinews observed remaining in the body.

Tox screen revealed .023 blood alcohol.

_No sinews observed remaining in the body._ He died because someone – or some_thing_ – ripped out all his tendons through his ankles.

**O.O.O.O.O**

_Home of Connie Rubirosa, Brooklyn, NY_  
_8:30PM Friday, July 27, 2012_

With only a twinge of guilt, Connie climbed into bed with a bowl of ice cream and her laptop.

The twinge was not for the poor excuse for a meal she was having while the bag of healthy groceries Lupo had brought over languished in the fridge, nor was it for the poor blooms that she'd sworn to try to plant somewhere, but which had been ignored all week and then tossed onto the compost heap by her cleaning lady.

It was for the clutch of files she'd stuffed into her portfolio two hours ago, determined to work on them tonight, and which she'd then used as an excuse to turn away the eager Detective who'd been waiting at her door with an offer to cook her dinner.

In her defence, her week had been long, tiring, gruelling, and more than a little bit unsettling, and a restorative ice cream binge in her fluffy all-white bedroom with the AC blasting was more of a necessity than a choice.

In between spoonfuls of PB & Chocolate Hagen Dazs, she caught up with her LA friends & family online. In her tiny amount of free time this week, she'd managed to get her kitchen & bedroom functional at least, the pleasure of finally being able to relax in a peaceful, comfortable retreat seeping into her bones. Perhaps now the nebulous discomfort and anxiety she'd been feeling all week would be banished. Well, if Egyptian cotton and six down pillows couldn't do it, nothing could.

Her bed felt like an answer to a prayer, but the rest of her bedroom was no less serene and comfortable. The floor was pine, as was the whole second floor, and this room like all the others had the original mouldings, door handles and baseboards. The tiny old-fashioned closet was a small price to pay, Connie thought, for the charm and balance of the room.

A traditionally-patterned green, cream and black hand-tied Mexican throw rug and the natural woven grass window blinds were the only non-white items in the room, accenting (along with some emerald-hued plants) the overstuffed armchair and rattan vanity. Connie loved the mis-matched, _acquired_ feel of the pieces she'd chosen; it made the place seem like home.

_Home_ was what she needed more of, and the thought spurred her commitment to make time for an unpacking marathon over the weekend. After years of apartment living, she was having a tiny bit more trouble than expected adjusting to being alone in a house. In the quiet neighbourhood, every sound was amplified. The trees whose stately shade she'd coveted, rustled with an insistence that was oddly oppressive. The creaks and groans of the house itself – even when caused by her own movement – were more jarring than they should have been.

Without the white noise of constant traffic, humming lights and humanity, she awoke to every passing car, rattling dog collar and conversation.

And having so many rooms was making her absent-minded. Perhaps when her whole house was exactly as she wanted, every box unpacked, she would stop misplacing things. No more accidentally throwing away once-used J-cloths and reusable coffee filters. No more wasted time looking for shoes she _remembered_ kicking off but apparently put away. A spoonful of ice cream hovered midair as she reflected on how much unconscious eating she'd been doing; a sure path to extra pounds. According to her conscious mind there should have been about a dozen half-eaten pop tarts and muffins around, but all she kept finding were empty plates.

"Mother of a–!" With diabolical timing, a phantom movement out of the corner of her eye startled her so much that she dropped the spoon right on her keyboard.

More spooked than usual, she sprang out of bed not only to clean up but to shake off the other familiar feeling she'd been having off-and-on since getting back to New York… irritation that she was letting her mind play tricks on her.

Still muttering epithets, she tried to exorcise her shaky nerves with the mundane ritual of wiping down her computer and straightening her bed. White sheets on a white mattress cover, under a white comforter under a white throw under white pillows and shams.

Had her choice of colour been at all influenced by the compact onyx shadow she'd been taunting herself with these past few days?

Ever since she'd returned to New York, she kept seeing _something _out of the corner of her eye. At first she thought it was a shifting shadow, then she feared it was a small animal. After trying and failing to track the intruder – which seemed to grow larger on a daily basis – she finally concluded it was her own psyche trying to gaslight her. After that she'd made an effort to ignore the 'sightings', but they still unnerved her.

In a moment of weakness, so disconcerted by her own apparently fragile psyche, she'd mentioned the recurring almost-hallucination to Mike. "I don't need you to tell me it's my imagination, I know it is, I just…" ~ "Need to know why now? It might just be the house." ~ "I know." ~ "Or are you… having regrets, about coming back?" He stumbled a bit over the question, and though his face was carefully blank, Connie was surprised to see taut the tendons of his neck standing out against his smooth skin. ~ "It's not regret, it's just… I still feel a lot of uncertainty. Maybe it's a symbol of that." They'd laughed, and she'd christened her dark shadow _The Oracle_ after the Matrix character whose job it was to unbalance the equation.

After her mention of uncertainty, Mike's warm smile had turned speculative, and she'd been relieved when he changed the subject back to work without quizzing her further.

In a moment of almost maternal even-handedness, she also shared her concerns with Lupo. It made no sense to tell him, but she was glad to receive his reassuring reply text.

if ur only cing it out of teh  
corner of ur i, it must be a  
fig of ur img cudnt elude  
u otherys

After calming herself down a bit, Connie took her ice cream bowl to the kitchen and rinsed it out, then poured herself a glass of wine. Her electronics weren't set up yet, so she couldn't sit on the sofa flipping channels to unwind. Instead she went back to bed and clicked through some of the fun stuff on Reddit. Lupo called, but she let it ring through to voicemail.

Still feeling a little tense, she was going to try to sleep when her phone chimed again, this time an email from Mike.

_I'm sending this to your personal email because I'm hoping you're not working._

_I just wanted to say, it's good to have you back._

_See you Monday,_

_Mike._

Connie hit her contacts and dialled a number.

"Mike? It's Connie. I just got your email…"

~.~.~.~.~

**A/N 2:** BOOOOOOOOOOOO! Please review!

WORDS: 2163 UPLOADED Tuesday, October 23, 2012


	4. HURT LIKE SORROW

**A/N 1:** This chapter is dedicated to obamagirl and skittles4me2, who have both been my champions of cyberspace. I am privileged to have such _chevaliers gallants_.

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER FOUR: HURT LIKE SORROW**

_Home of Connie Rubirosa, Brooklyn, NY_  
_11:02PM Friday, July 27, 2012_

It was hungry.

For the first time, since it had come to be.

When it first woke up, it had seemed as though it was lying on a bed made of food. Warm, wafting on a gentle breeze, so many fragrances.

It had tried to eat, but the food wasn't good. Back then it had been too young to recognise garbage.

Garbage. It would _never again _resort to eating garbage.

After coming to be, it was small and weak. The hot sun burnt it, other creatures scared it. Time seemed to run in an endless circle of nothing and no-one. Only a legion of discomfort and solitude.

Now it had found work and its needs were being taken care of. Watching from the corners, it saw how things were supposed to be and made sure they stayed that way. Nothing out of place.

And in return it was served. Sweet things, good things. More than enough.

But now it was hungry, and the feeling hurt like sorrow. Why had the good sweet cream been rinsed away? Why were the nice smells locked behind the big metal?

Why was the house so quiet and lonely even though his mistress was home?

For the umpteenth time tonight, it made its rounds of the house, looking for something to set right, some evidence that its efforts were appreciated and rewarded. The soft cooing sounds it made as it worked were lost in the creaks and rustles and jangles of the neighbourhood. As before, it eventually trundled back to its nest under the sink in the laundry room. So warm, so clean smelling.

Combing its coat soothingly with trembling claws, it slept.

~.~.~.~.~

**A/N 2:** "Ask and ye shall receive". I'm asking for reviews, I hope I'll receive them.

WORDS: 345 UPLOADED Saturday, October 27, 2012


	5. EAMES?

**A/N 1:** This chapter is dedicated to rindy713, who is the wind beneath my wings!

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER FIVE: EAMES?**

_Home of Connie Rubirosa, Brooklyn, NY_  
_10:50PM Monday, July 30, 2012_

"Eames? Here, see?"

Moving to squat next to her partner by the mutilated body of Detective Lupo, Alex's thoughts drifted briefly to the ADA Connie Rubirosa, waiting for them in her bedroom under the watchful eye of a uniform. She didn't know they'd been friends.

There was always an extra buzz when the vic was a first responder, and a lot of extra brass and scrutiny. Captain Hannah and the 2-7 Lieutenant Van Buren were both already at the crime scene when they arrived, and both had fielded calls and visits from the Brass. Alex had been grateful to her Captain for staying until everything had died down, so that she and her partner could do their work in peace.

"Look at his hand." Her partner grabbed the elbow of the vic and gently presented it for her inspection. "The wrist's at an odd angle. The fingers are all, twisted. See?" After years of similar conversations, she knew it was useless to say, _No, I will not look._ "I've seen something like this before."

There was a commotion at the gaping front door of Ms Rubirosa's home, and Alex tilted her head to try to take in both loci of action. "You've seen it… _where_?"

"I'm Mike Cutter, Bureau Chief. Connie Rubirosa is my colleague." Wow he got here fast. The uniform standing guard stopped him from proceeding and wagged a finger at Eames.

"Bag the hands please," Bobby said to the ME. "Has CSU finished processing Miss Rubirosa?"

"Detective Eames," Cutter and the officer said together from the door.

"Uh, Eames…"

"Just a sec, I'll be back," she muttered as she arose and headed for the doorway.

"Detective Eames," he said again, nodding his head in lieu of a handshake, "What happened? Ms Rubirosa, she ah, is she alright?"

Alex didn't even need to look into the ADA's eyes to know that his interest here was more than professional… she could hear it in his voice. She wondered briefly if she'd ever exposed herself thus? "Ms Rubirosa was treated at the scene. We haven't interviewed her yet."

"Eames!"

"What was he doing here?" For once, the mildly indignant question was about the vic, not her partner.

"Mr Cutter, we'll be going up to speak to your colleague very soon. You might be more comfortable waiting in your car?" The ADA's tight-lipped head shake was no surprise; he wasn't going anywhere.

**o.o.o.o.o**

"I… we'd just got back from dinner. I don't, understand what happened, I was only outside for a couple of minutes, just looking for the, flowers. I ran back when I heard Lupo screaming."

Ms Rubirosa was holding it together pretty well, only she shuddered whenever she looked at her hands, and she couldn't catch her breath. Alex didn't consider her a suspect and it appeared Bobby didn't either, even notwithstanding her very convincing affect.

Their witness was sitting on a sterile sheet on her own bed, dressed in scrubs. The simple, flattering sundress she'd been wearing when she apparently discovered Lupo on the floor had been bagged and tagged and taken away. Her hands and arms, bloody from where she'd tried to tie tourniquets above his wounds – not realising he was already dead – had been scrubbed raw. She'd been photographed and swabbed, but she knew the drill. She'd have to account for herself and the incident, no matter her status with the court.

Alex was standing to her left, and Bobby had forgone his usual restless stalking and rummaging, and instead was hunched over in her easy chair, making himself as small and non-threatening as possible.

"Do you recall if you locked the door when you got home?" Bobby's face was tilted a bit to the side, his voice quiet and face averted, he was doing his best to put her at ease.

Ms Rubirosa had given a fairly clear account of her evening with Detective Lupo; dinner in the neighbourhood from 7:30-9, coffee at a sidewalk café for a half hour or so more, and according to the ADA the victim had only come in for a few minutes out of curiosity.

That was where things were getting a bit hinky as far as Alex was concerned. Not that Ms Rubirosa was being deceptive or evasive, but…

On their way up the stairs she'd asked her partner about his cryptic remark from earlier, but he'd waved her off. Before that she'd overheard him quizzing the ME on the looseness of the Detective's joints, even dangling one of the vic's arms to demonstrate. The ME's conclusion of some kind of bizarre internal tissue damage didn't seem to surprise Bobby at all.

What kind of scenario could have resulted in what happened downstairs? Someone waiting in the house for them? There had been no evidence consistent with such a thing. Ms Rubirosa as the perp or facilitating the actions of another? Unlikely. A home invasion? How? Why?

"Yes, I remember closing and locking the door."

"Windows?" Alex asked.

"All closed. I had the AC on…" Rubirosa waved towards the grates in the floor. "It still is." She looked up and away, then frowned. "When I went out the back, I closed the door, but I didn't lock it. If that helps."

"It might," Bobby answered. "We'll check that door again and make sure CSU goes over it thoroughly."

Haltingly, Rubirosa went over again the gory details of finding Lupo on the kitchen floor. The horrible screams, his grotesque wounds, his garbled, pitiful sounds and her frantic efforts as he died right in front of her.

Alex even with all her experience felt a tiny bit shaken at the end.

"Miss Rubirosa, thank you, I know that was difficult. Was there anything – off – about the evening or the time beforehand? Anything, any_one_, out of place?"

"No," she answered forlornly.

"Except…?" Bobby must have heard some hesitation in her answer, such was his remarkable gift with people.

Rubirosa shrugged. "Well, Detective Lupo. He… brought me flowers last Sunday, eight days ago. He seemed really anxious to look at them or something. He sent me out to the compost heap to find them."

Bobby started scribbling furiously in his notebook. Alex took the beat to ask something that had been niggling at her just a bit. "Were you – close? With Detective Lupo?" She was thinking of Mike Cutter's anxious face as she asked the question.

"No, not really. We didn't keep in touch after I left – left New York. I was in Los Angeles for almost two years, don't know if you knew that. But, we socialised a couple of times since I got back."

Bobby looked up and smiled beatifically. "Do you have somewhere to go? Someone…" Rubirosa shook her head. "Because Mike Cutter arrived shortly after we did. He's waiting downstairs, maybe he could take you somewhere?" Wow. She didn't realise Bobby had noticed the Bureau Chief, Ms Rubirosa's would-be suitor? setting up camp at Ms Rubirosa's doorstep.

"Mike? He's – here?" Hope warred with trepidation on her face, and Alex took a chance and asked the uniform to go get him. When Alex turned back the ADA was fussing with her unflattering borrowed garments. "Can I, change? Take anything with me?"

"Yeah," Bobby answered, "From here and the bathroom. An officer will make note of what you take." He stood up and held out his hand to her.

"We're very sorry for your loss Ms Rubirosa," Alex said, "We'll be in touch. And we may have more questions."

"Of course."

"I only seem not to pay attention," Bobby muttered in her ear as they stepped through the bedroom door.

They passed Mike Cutter in the short hallway upstairs, and Alex chanced a look over her shoulder at the meeting between the two lawyers. Their silent exchange: worry, inquisition and insecurity on the part of the Bureau Chief, relief and apology from the ADA, satisfied her curiosity about the two. There was definitely something there.

**o.o.o.o.o**

After taking a careful look at the back door and getting updates from some of the investigators at the scene, they left to head back to 1PP to report and regroup before going out to do interviews with some of Detective Lupo's colleagues and friends. Lupo's boss at the 2-7 – Lieutenant Van Buren, now back at 1PP with their captain after touring the scene, had the unhappy task of contacting his next of kin.

"What was that about earlier, Bobby?" She was questioning whether she'd heard him correctly before.

"We're not gonna get anything from his contacts, Eames," Bobby muttered as she pulled onto the main drag. "There was another case, upstate. Same MO exactly. Male with the backs of his legs ripped out, significant trauma from inside the body somehow, vic in the kitchen, at night, spatter from the floor up to knee level."

"What?" That one word could not express her incredulity, but she was at a loss for any others.

Bobby shrugged, then his phone rang. "Goren." After listening to the response he put it on speaker. "Captain?"

"Get back to the scene you two, the Feds are there."

~.~.~.~.~

**A/N 2:** What are you doing reading this fic? You should be out having fun on Hallowe'en! But since you're here… pretty please, leave a review? Then I won't have to haunt you.

WORDS: 1597 UPLOADED Wednesday, October 31, 2012


	6. LITTLE PITCHERS

**A/N 1:** Thanks to Shortysc22 of livejournal for the geographical info. And I know that it's a bit of a cop-out, not incorporating the events of the end of X Files & the two movies in their relationship, but it would just be too complicated and I'd have to do too much research.

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER SIX: LITTLE PITCHERS**

_On the Van Wyck, NY_  
_11:32PM Monday, July 30, 2012_

Once they hit the NY metropolitan area, Agent Fox Mulder got tired of pretending to be asleep.

The miles had flown by through the soft summer night. How many thousands of them had he travelled, in the passenger seat, watching farms and cities unfurl through slitted eyes, listening to Scully sigh and mutter to herself and sing along with the radio, ever so softly?

Was this, a night like this one, what he would look back on once it all ended? Would this moment – his stubble itchy against his open collar and his partner, his protector, his ball and chain chewing her lip in the driver's seat – be what came to mind at the moment of his death?

With everything that had happened in his life, every loss, every victory, memories like this one had always been the most visceral.

Was he missing something? Was it really the journey and not the destination? He really didn't…

"Mulder. I know you're awake."

He sighed. "Scully. Where are we?" Somehow it was important to hang on to the illusion. Something they were both good at.

"On the Van Wyck. Are you going to tell me what we're doing, Mulder?"

He answered her, in his own way, waving the blue screen of his Bindle, which featured the cover art of an instantly-recognisable series.

"Were you reading that? The whole time?"

"Not the _whole_ time. Why, I thought you approve of research?"

"Research? Harry Potter is research?"

"For its forensic cryptozoology markers, yes. It's like a smorgasbord of so-called 'mythological' beings and old wives tales, Scully. Avada Kadavra for Abra Cadabra. Fairies, only they're little and mean. Garden gnomes. Werewolves. House Elves."

**O.O.O.O.O**

Alex had turned the vehicle around at the first opportunity and now they were on their way back to the crime scene.

"At first they thought it was animals, now they're working the spouse angle." Bobby thought nothing of picking up the previous thread of their conversation… long experience told him that Alex could keep up.

"His wife? Well whether or not that's true, the doer here was definitely not Rubirosa."

"No, of course not. It's the same perp Eames. Both New York State. And there's another one, I'm trying to track it down…" Seeing an actual scene – and knowing the players – had begun to solidify things in his mind. Disturbing possibilities were coming into focus, while more comfortable, predictable ones were fast dissolving. He looked at the profile of his partner and wondered how he was going to broach the subject with her.

He also wondered how she was doing? He knew that Alex strongly disliked personal conversations, particularly expressions of concern, but he'd seen the tiny hesitations all day as she launched herself out of her chair; she was sore. Maybe moreso than him. But he wouldn't get a chance to ask her until…

"You mean the one in that tabloid? Bobby, that's not like you." The words were scolding but her tone was warm.

He smiled in the darkness. "I know."

"Well that one was being worked as a satanic ritual, or was that 'fact' made up?" The article had mentioned a ritualistic angle… had Alex caught that on her glance over his shoulder? When her bare arm had brushed the padded shoulder of his suit jacket and he'd wondered how the silk/linen blend had felt to her?

"You read it?"

"Of course."

She'd gone back later and read it.

He was used to her curiosity, her courtesy, but somehow it meant more to him now. It was a novel feeling, being with someone who took an interest in things just because he did. "It's being investigated as some kind of ritual killing, yes. I'm more interested in the solar flares angle. I have some calls in, waiting for info back. In the meantime…"

Alex pulled back along Rubirosa's quiet street, still lit up with floodlights. Bobby noticed a silver sedan parked on the lawn, and two figures standing rigidly on the front stoop.

"What kind of a person would do something like this, and for what reason?" Bobby felt another twinge… 13 years ago, little 'Eames comments' like that had irritated him, leading him to think she was judgemental and a little shallow. His matter-of-fact answers seemed in turn to irritate _her_… it took him a while to realise that she _did_ like hearing his insights, as long as she didn't feel she was being lectured to. Much later, he came to know that her asides were a form of solidarity with him, a way of reminding both of them that they were human beings, with feelings and values. Who would eventually work together to find the answers.

"Who says it's a person?"

**O.O.O.O.O**

The NYPD bull at the door was predictably lacking in imagination, and despite Scully's extremely reasonable arguments, they were forced to wait at the top of the stairs for the lead detectives to return and grant the two FBI agents permission to enter.

Finally, after what seemed like ages of starting conversations only to halt them abruptly once they remembered their audience, a big black SUV pulled up and two people hopped out, with surprising alacrity considering the time of night.

_The hunt_. NYPD detectives were a hungry bunch.

Mulder met the eyes of his partner, then they both turned to watch the other couple approach. A more mismatched pair would be hard to find; she was tiny and wiry, while he was – _huge_. Powerful, trim and a bit grizzled, with a hint of a Frankenstein shuffle to his gait and carriage.

Both he and Scully met the little one's shrewd eyes evenly, but Mulder did a double-take at the other… whose big crafty face showed that he wasn't the least bit surprised or nonplussed by their presence.

"Good evening Detectives. I'm Agent Scully, this is my partner Agent Mulder." On cue, from years of practice, they flipped their ID in unison. The big detective looked over Mulder's shoulder and smiled, and Mulder guessed the bull at the door had been rolling his eyes.

"Detective Eames, and this is my partner Detective Goren," the smaller one echoed, taking her time along with her partner examining the Agents' bona fides. "How can we help you?" Eames and Goren seemed in no hurry to escort them in; rather, they made a point of staying put on the crowded stoop.

"Well, we were hoping to have a tour of the crime scene, further to a related case we're investigating," Scully lied smoothly. Again, from years of practice.

Detective Eames frowned. "Are you claiming jurisdiction? Because this case…"

Mulder shook his head hastily. "No detective, we know this was one of your own. And the crime scene is the home of a member of the DA's office?" Both detectives nodded. "We're just here to observe, chat with you a bit about the details of the case. We have some – experience – with unusual MOs, we may even be able to contribute some insights."

The little one, Eames, seemed unconvinced, but the other detective was all ears. "How did you hear about the case so fast, Agent, uh, Mulder?"

"Like my partner said, we have our ears open for unusual MOs," Scully replied.

**O.O.O.O.O**

"No flowers found on the scene, huh?"

Until that second, Alex had been content to be left out of the three-way conversation between Bobby and the two FBI agents.

They'd shown Mulder & Scully the blood-drenched kitchen – where Mulder, like Bobby earlier – commented on the height of the spatter. They'd shown them the clearly un-touched door. They'd shown them the unknown feathery black fibre Bobby had pointed out and she had retrieved from the baseboard behind a stack of boxes, and finally, they'd shown them the body. Poor Detective Lupo, his gory deflated eye sockets cracked a quarter open and his waxy skin neither exuding nor absorbing anything from the world of the living. His remains still on the floor while technicians continued to work around him.

"Flowers? Um, why do you ask?"

'_Unusual MOs' my granny's upside down cake_, Alex thought. Those two FBI agents were good, very good. They had a very believable and reassuring patter to couch and gloss over the string of odd questions they'd been asking. They'd responded convincingly to Bobby somewhat aggressive highlighting of the things they _hadn't_ asked. Their significant glances and other reactions had been almost unnoticeable.

Almost.

Alex could easily picture Scully & Mulder breezing through a hundred crime scenes without raising the suspicions of local law enforcement. The explanation they gave – a somewhat jumbled account of toxin-induced psychosis and animal predation – would have played on the expectations and paranoia of many-a-smalltown sheriff. But it left her feeling like she'd just walked onto the set of Men in Black IV.

Which drew her to a disturbing conclusion: if it wasn't a bizarre coincidence of environmental factors and ravenous coyotes occurring in several locations within a two week period, what did these two pursuers of unusual MOs think it was?

**O.O.O.O.O**

Uh oh. These two were good, very good. Not for the first time, Scully cursed her partner for not filling her in on the details of the case before arriving; why he insisted on pretending to sleep all the time in the car was beyond her.

She knew it wasn't about her, but still she took it personally sometimes.

They'd been working together off and on for almost 20 years. Wasn't it time to be past some of that stuff?

Both the NYPD detectives had started at Mulder's question about the flowers, but it wasn't the first thing they'd reacted to. The big detective, Goren, was very smooth. His bland questions and occasional answers wouldn't have raised any flags with 99% of LE, even FBI, but Scully and Mulder both knew they were being made with every step, every inquiry, every sidelong glance that showed them up as having a different angle from a typical FBI team.

It was an unsettling feeling, as if their escorts were playing out rope, waiting for the swinging to start.

"I uh, just curious," was Mulder's surprisingly awkward reply.

"Really?" The big detective cracked a feral smile down at his partner. "Cuz, ah, we were curious…" Mulder looked up from the body just in time for Scully and the detectives to catch the surprise on his face, "If there were flowers on the scenes upstate and in that cannibalism case?"

An oasis of quiet descended upon the four in the midst of the tumult still posed by the army of uniforms and criminalists around them. The two canny New Yorkers seemed to be taking in both her and Mulder at once, and for Scully's part her eyes were glued to her partner, feeling a bit like a deer in the headlights.

Mulder recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. He looked at her, seeming to seek assistance, but she had none. How could she? She had no idea what was going on.

Concerned that her partner was going to try some shenanigans that would get them in big trouble with New York's most self-satisfied squad, she decided to put them all out of their misery. "Good question. Mulder? My partner actually hadn't had time to brief me fully before we got here, so perhaps all of us can compare notes on the cases and be edified."

"Oookaaaay," her partner replied. Leading the four by arising from his squat, but staying close to the body, he rolled his neck theatrically and turned to Detective Goren. "So how did you know about the other cases?"

The big man shrugged, and his partner smirked. "I scan the homicide and suspicious death reports for the whole state, just out of curiosity. Found the one upstate, got interested. And that led me to google the injuries, which led me to a gossip rag, which led me to the other report."

"Then you know that a person didn't do this," Mulder replied, causing the little detective to glance up at her partner in surprise. "Nor did any animal known to populate these parts, or anywhere else for that matter."

**O.O.O.O.O**

Bobby had felt very much in his element, even showing off a bit, as he exposed the inconsistencies and hidden agendas of the FBI agents' inquiries.

He could actually _feel_ Alex's admiration creep up his spine and flood warmly across his shoulders as he toyed with them.

But Mulder's stark question had abruptly checked his momentum. Truth was, he _did_ suspect an explanation outside the margins of normal policework. But having to say so in front of Alex when he knew the stark boundaries of her thin blue line, when he hadn't had a chance to discuss it with her, felt like juggling failure with a catcher's mitt.

He couldn't lie, and Alex always knew when he was equivocating for her benefit. "I had my doubts about it being a conventional case," he murmured, nodding.

"Is there anything else you two need to see here," Alex interrupted. He'd been afraid to look at her when he made his admission, but she seemed unconcerned and not the least bit irritated. "Cuz little pitchers have big ears," she added, glancing significantly at the phalanx of techs and uniforms surrounding them.

"We'd like to look around outside," Agent Scully said.

Bobby and Alex led the two agents out the kitchen door and into the floodlit back yard. CSU had been all over the property looking for any signs of activity from anyone other than the homeowner, but when all four cracked their flashlights and examined the compost heap, it was undisturbed. Agent Mulder's attention quickly focused on the shrivelled and musty stems scattered off to one corner, and Bobby joined him poking around a bit, the Agent with a pen-knife and Bobby with his switchblade.

There was nothing overtly connected to the murder visible in the pile, and Mulder soon turned to train his flashlight on the back porch. "Did CSU process the cat door?" he asked as his flashlight played back and forth, up and down across the outside of the house.

"Since it wasn't a plausible point of entry, they wouldn't have made it a top priority," Alex said a bit defensively.

"We can get them to give it a once-over before they go," Bobby said, staring at his partner.

"Don't bother," Agent Mulder said cryptically. He pulled out his phone and hit a couple of buttons. "Hey Dickie, it's me. Yeah hi to you too. Yeah I know, I saw you too. Listen, I need you to do a couple of things for me. Is the van up and running?" The group was quiet as they puzzled over the odd conversation. "OK I need you to process the cat door, and the part of the compost heap where the flowers were scattered."

Before Mulder could even hang up, a weedy young NYPD CSU tech was visible rounding the side of the house with her kit.

**o.o.o.o.o**

"Good catch with the tabloid connection."

All four of them had stood and watched as 'Dickie', apparently some kind of friend of Mulder's, carefully processed the cat door and used a small saw to cut out the indicated portion of the compost bed. Alex and Mulder had continued around to the front of the house, the latter muttering something about a 'nest', while Bobby and Scully followed the CSU tech to some unauthorised vehicle nearby to examine the evidence she'd gathered.

"Uh, thanks," Bobby muttered, fascinated by the strange, feathery brown filaments at the bottoms of some of the withered blooms, visible under the halogen lights of Dickie's tricked-out lab-mobile. Dickie looked at her watch and abruptly departed, admonishing them to 'turn the lights out' when they left and refrain from 'rocking'. Agent Scully had appeared unconcerned about the unorthodox venue and break in the chain of evidence, and not for the first time Bobby's curiosity over-rode his loyalty to procedure.

Not all the stems had sprouted roots, only two that attached to strange flowers Bobby couldn't place.

"Neither you nor your partner appear to be too disturbed by the inconsistencies of this case," Scully continued, donning a white lab coat, double latex gloves and an illuminated magnifying headpiece. She gestured to another set hanging from a utility board, but Bobby declined with a shake of his head, relying on his magnifying glass and the overhead light. "She seems pretty by-the-book, this must be a bit disturbing for her."

"We both go where the evidence takes us," he replied with a shrug. He didn't like talking about Alex when she wasn't there, no matter what was being said. And, Agent Scully's light and forceps were revealing some fascinating evidence as she picked away the detritus of the compost heap.

Scully turned on a recorder and began to dictate as she examined the material.

"_Brooklyn, New York, twelve-twenty AM Tuesday August 1 2012. Present is Agent Dana Scully FBI and Detective Robert Goren NYPD. Examining plant material collected in situ with household compost, from a crime scene in the home of ADA Connie Rubirosa, further to the investigation of the unnatural death of Detective Cyrus Lupo, NYPD._

"_Material in question, cut flowers from a bouquet allegedly purchased by the deceased, appear to be from the genera Asteraceae, thistle, although they don't match any varietal I am familiar with."_

In a neutral, musical tone, the FBI agent went on to describe the two withered blooms and the mysterious root-like threads that appeared to be growing from the bottoms of their stems. The unknown varietal and atypical growths were strange enough though adroitly described by Agent Scully, but the paydirt so to speak came next.

_"There appears to be a third bloom of the unknown thistle, although it presents differently from the previous two described. This stem's filaments appear to have rooted themselves in a receptive patch of compost, and the flowering portion of the bloom is absent. My initial conclusion is that this example appears to have gone through some sort of seeding stage. The fruit of this process – whatever it may be – is also absent."_

The clinically-worded conclusion sent a thrill up Bobby's spine. What were these strange plants? And where were the 'fruits' of their labours?

"Do you have any idea what's going on?" she finally asked.

"I think so," Bobby replied.

~.~.~.~.~

**A/N 2:** Eeeeee! If you have a clue, please review!

WORDS: 3160 UPLOADED Sunday, November 11, 2012


	7. IT WASN'T YOU

**A/N 1**: Shout out to insubordinationfreak, with whom I have the most fascinating conversations!

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER SEVEN: IT WASN'T YOU**

_Jamaica Avenue, Brooklyn, NY_  
_11:55PM Monday, July 30, 2012_

After 20 blocks of near silence, Mike had his driver pull over so that Connie could throw up.

He gave her a couple of minutes, then stepped out to join her on the sidewalk with a bottle of water and her sweater.

Earlier, as he'd escorted her out of her house and into the towncar, he'd murmured a few words of concern and condolence, but thereafter had kept his mouth shut.

How often had Connie commented on the readiness of his glib rejoinders? Certainly his career hinged on his ability to think on his feet and say anything.

But this wasn't his career, it wasn't even his colleague, it was his dear… friend who had suffered an unbearable shock, and he was terrified of saying the wrong thing.

"Thanks Mike," she said, sipping the water and discreetly swishing.

"Connie, I, uh…" he draped the sweater over her shoulders and tried to stay close without making her feel like he was crowding her. The smart, graceful woman he'd been so happy to have back in his life was wilted and listless, white faced with tired eyes. The part of his heart that he kept locked away in order to be who he was ached for the pain she was feeling, and for the detective who'd endured such an ugly death.

"It's my fault, Mike," she whispered. Her eyes were dry, but Mike could feel the anguish radiating from her.

He bit back the desire to argue, tell her that she was wrong. Instead he took a neutral inquisitive tone, hoping that letting her talk was the right thing to do. "How so?"

To his surprise, she smiled. A tiny smile, but still… "No objections, counsellor?" He was relieved to see the tiny spark, a glimpse of his Connie. _His Connie…?_

"As your attorney, I need all the facts before mounting your defence." He examined her face carefully, hoping his attempt at humour would find a safe landing. He hoped she wouldn't think he was being callous… he also hoped she wouldn't take his comment as a hint that he thought she might need defending.

Fortunately for him, she smiled. It was a small smile, but nevertheless… "My defence? Isn't that a bit… out of character? For a prosecutor?"

"If I have it in me to come to the defence of anybody, it would be you Connie." Oooooh nonononono, what was he saying? He enjoined his traitorous heart to rein in his careless lips.

Suddenly her spirits crumbled again. "Even if I'm guilty?"

"Guilty of what? I know you didn't hurt him." He took a step towards his colleague and put a hand in the middle of her back. He felt her lean into his touch.

"I might as well have."

**o.o.o.o.o**

"…but Connie… if he hadn't been there, it might have been you."

Mike was only a tiny bit ashamed of how relieved he felt hearing Connie's explanation of her guilty mind. She wasn't involved with Detective Lupo, and she wasn't involved with his death. Good. She was just… being herself. More thoughtful and kind than was good for her, borrowing responsibility and the trouble that followed just for being human.

She felt responsible because of saying yes to his invitation, for the fact that he was there at all.

He also felt much more himself, on more familiar territory. Drawing simple diagrams of lesser evils was his wheelhouse…

"Mike, that's a terrible thing to say. It doesn't make it any better."

…as was playing the part of the heartless analyst who pointed out blunt, painful truths and being hated for it.

"I'm sorry, Connie. You know me… I'm very, very sorry that Lupo's gone, but all I can think of is, _it wasn't you._"

His arm still loose around her waist, her wilting like a parched petal in the heat, in his mind's eye Mike saw her crumble against him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder…

But all she said was something about how this wasn't the time for that conversation, then she turned and let herself back into the back of the towncar.

Belying her earlier words, after a few blocks she spoke again. "Sorry I snapped at you."

"You didn't. And, apology accepted."

"Isn't it weird how things are never what they seem?"

Frowning, he bit back a glib reply. "Such as?"

"When my mother died, it hurt so much." Mike nodded; they'd spoken a couple of times about their shared pain of losing their mothers. "But along with that pain was the knowledge, and it made me hurt and ashamed to admit it, that even though I missed her terribly and would have given anything for five more minutes with her the way she was before the got sick, if I could have had her back and my life back the way it was when she was alive, I would have chosen 'no'."

"The pain of losing her combined with the pain of knowing you'd moved on." Mike wondered anxiously what she was trying to tell him. Had she moved on? And if so, from what?

"Exactly." She turned to him, and her dark eyes held… something… in the guttering lights from the streetlamps as they passed. "Mike… At the end of our conversation on Friday, I was going to ask _you_ out to dinner, not Lupo."

_If you need to achoo, please don't review!_

~.~.~.~.~

**A/N 2:** I remain discouraged by the lack of feedback for this fic. Is it because it sucks? Just not people's cup of tea? Too many Fandoms?

WORDS: 965 UPLOADED Thursday, January 17, 2013


	8. ROUS?

**A/N 1**: Uber props to rindy713, who put together my (in my own mind very minor, very vague) clues and figured out my surprise ending! The perspicacity of my amazing readers should not surprise me.

~.~.~.~.~

**CHAPTER EIGHT: R.O.U.S.?**

_Home of Connie Rubirosa, Brooklyn, NY_  
_12:20AM Tuesday, August 1, 2012_

"What do you mean, nest?" Alex asked Mulder on the way back into the house.

Ignoring her question, he asked one of his own. "You and your partner are cool customers. Do you know what you've gotten yourselves into?"

Alex shrugged. "I think Bobby does, I'm not sure what I know." She was following the FBI agent as he poked around all the nooks and crannies of the house, looking in cupboards, behind big pieces of furniture, inside air vents. Around them, the CSU teams were wrapping up, the body just being moved into the Coroner's vehicle. In the absence of conversation, she felt compelled to add to her previous comment. "I don't know enough about forensics to say definitively when something can't be done by a human being; I think people are capable of anything."

Mulder turned his head and looked at her, his expression a mixture of condescending and impressed. "Does your partner think this wasn't an act committed by a human?"

Suddenly Alex didn't feel like encouraging the little guy. "You'll have to ask him yourself, Agent Mulder," she said with a shrug.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, training his light around the inside of the laundry room sink cupboard. "The nest."

**O.O.O.O.O**

_Outside Mike Cutter's apartment, Brooklyn, NY_  
_12:20AM Tuesday, August 1, 2012_

"If you'd prefer, I could take you to a hotel."

Mike Cutter definitely did NOT want to take Connie to a hotel.

After handing his colleague out of the towncar, Mike had had the presence of mind to signal the driver to stay.

Right now they were in a holding pattern on the sidewalk in front of his building, Connie staring intently at him while he waited patiently for her to figure out whatever her big brain was ruminating on. He could see the familiar gears turning behind her eyes, working it out, working it out.

He worried that the tiny crease marring her smooth forehead was there because she was having second thoughts about staying with him.

He'd already run through the steps in his mind, from the moment they got in the door: grab her a plate of crackers and cheese while he puts the kettle on; watch her throw her purse on the plush white rug, kick off her shoes and curl up in the corner of his buttersoft leather sofa; brew her a cup of the expensive peppermint tea he keeps on hand just for her; turn down the AC because she runs colder than him; whip on a clean set of sheets and wipe down the ensuite while she's nibbling; pull out his old Hudson University Law sweatshirt and leave it on the bed for her in case she's chilly…

Which led to thoughts of her snuggled in his king-sized bed, which led to him mirroring her little frown out of concern that she was bailing before he'd even got her. Home, before he'd got her home.

He opened his mouth to say something pre-emptive, persuasive. Trim back her concerns before they had a chance to flower. _~ You shouldn't be alone at a time like this ~ You can skype your family from my TV ~ You'll need the support of the office to fend off the media ~ _It all felt inadequate, _he_ felt inadequate. The thought of Connie facing the next few hours alone distressed him greatly, but he couldn't seem to figure out the words that would convince her.

"Ummm, what? No! Mike, no it's fine, here is fine," she said, still staring at him with that faraway look that told him she was deep inside her own mind.

"Okay," he agreed, nodding and trying not to look too relieved. "Is there, do you think we should go up? It's a bit chilly out here, yeah?"

She caught his eye with a spark that swept away her previous half-conscious regard, and started to nod. "Yes, that's…" Then she took a step towards him. "Actually, Mike, I think I want to go back."

"Back? To the, uh, to your house?"

"Yes." She half-turned towards the towncar then hesitated. "Do you mind? I could go by myself if you…"

"NO, of course not!" The exclamation was a bit more forceful than he intended, and Connie jumped a bit. He hastened to open the door for her. "May I ask why?" he asked as he stepped in the other side.

"Mike, Lupo was… preoccupied… by something he gave me the day I arrived back home." _Home_, she said.

Mike took a moment to tell the driver to go back where they came. "Did you mention it to the detectives?"

"Yes, but… I want to… Mike, he was _looking for them when he was killed_."

**O.O.O.O.O**

_Home of Connie Rubirosa, Brooklyn, NY_  
_12:25AM Tuesday, August 1, 2012_

_The nest_. The simple words belied their ominous significance, and Alex watched the movement of Agent Mulder's hands with flashlight and pen knife with a sinking feeling.

The small circle of what looked like shredded cleaning rags and used muffin papers almost completely denuded of muffin, smelled rancid and gamey and stale. A bit like her niece's gerbil cage. The thought that this _something_ was responsible for a death was a little bit too weird to take in, and Alex found herself rationalising. "It could just be a…"

"A what?" Mulder shot back. "A squirrel? A tapir? A _Rodent of Unusual Size_?" Mulder carefully moved the bottles of cleaning solution out of the way and began to take pictures of the conglomeration. "No, I'm pretty sure I know exactly what this is. Where's my Bindle?"

"What?" Alex asked.

"My Bindle. It's got a lot of my, research, on it."

"I meant _what is it_?"

Mulder stood up and pointed a finger at her, then pulled out his cell phone. "Detective Eames. What do you know about the history of Scottish folklore?"

_You gotta be kidding me,_ she thought as she stared contemptuously at the finger he was waving in her face. _Scottish folklore? Sorry, the __history__ of Scottish folklore. What did I do in a past life to deserve __two__ eccentric know-it-alls?_

He abruptly turned on his heel and started back towards the kitchen door, dialling as he went. "Scully. We found the nest. Where's the homeowner?" She heard the murmur of Mulder's partner replying.

Alex's phone rang. "Eames," she answered. It was Mike Cutter.

"1755 marked the worst sunspot activity on record, Scully. That same era sparked a flurry of sightings of so-called 'folkloric' creatures all across Europe, North Africa, and northern Asia. Even some evidence exists from the Americas." She had to trot to keep pace with the agile little FBI agent, who had taken off in the direction of the back door.

"Detective Eames? Connie and I are on our way back to the house, there's something she wants to discuss with you and your partner."

She watched as Mulder hunched almost protectively over his phone. "Boggles, brownies, hobgoblins. All shades of the same creature, Scully. A household elf that can turn on its family if it is mistreated. Or, legend has it, if it's given a name."

"Meet us out back, Mr Cutter. You should know that the FBI is here, a special team accustomed to unusual cases."

They were out the door and Mulder steered them towards the vehicle that contained their partners as he ended his call with Agent Scully. Alex rang off as well. "A House Elf, Agent Mulder?" The absurdity of his suggestion was completely out of sync with his dead serious demeanour. She wondered if he was a complete crackpot.

"Yes, Detective," he answered. Alex's trouser cuffs grew damp as she followed the Agent through the dewy grass of Rubirosa's back yard.

"Like from Harry Potter?"

"Yeah, although JK Rowling basically stole almost all her so-called…"

Alex interrupted him. "So what are we gonna do, give it clothes?" she snarked.

"No, we are not." Thank god for that. Maybe he wasn't a _complete_ crackpot. "It has to be the lady of the house, she's its mistress."

_I would be most grateful if you would take a moment to leave a review, no matter how short, sweet, hot, salty, sour or even bitter. Thank you!_

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**A/N 2:** Thanks so much to all my awesome readers, I love you all.

WORDS: 1442 UPLOADED Thursday, January 24, 2013


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